The Road Less Traveled
by Morrighan256
Summary: For the son of a Death Eater, there is no easy way. DracoHermione, postHBP, containing many HBP spoilers. Read at your own risk.
1. Prelude

**A/N**: This plot bunny didn't just attack--it was a bloody massacre. I don't know how fast I'll update or even really where this is going; I've got a novel to write, dammit, but I jammed out five pages in a little more than hour, so this one's not taking _no _for an answer. We shall see. As an aside, I very, _very _rarely title my stories until four or five chapters in, so this title may change if I find something more apt. For purposes of clarity, I don't see myself working on any of my other stories, so if you see an update by me, chances are it's this story. Enjoy, and REVIEW! If you want to see more of this story, let me know. Without encouragement, I'm more apt to let it drop.

* * *

The Dark Lord was not one to forget. Ever.

Merlin, he was tired.

His feet felt absurdly heavy as he stumbled forward, the back of his neck fairly itching as his nerves screamed a warning. He'd thought, once, that he'd get used to it; that eventually he'd be used to the omnipresent feeling that someone watched him, that unfriendly eyes peered from the underbrush, the alleys, the streets of London, the halls of the houses he broke into to catch one miserable night of sleep. If he was going to adjust, it hadn't happened yet.

He thought he knew why.

The Dark Mark. It was always starkly black, the serpent crawling over the skin of his forearm, hissing and yawning as if to show its fangs. That was why he always felt…watched. It wasn't impossible that the Dark Lord was watching, with whatever sense, power, or knowledge the Dark Mark gave him. But either it amused him to watch Draco run, or he couldn't see enough to send his Death Eaters after the errant son of one of his staunchest supporters.

Draco didn't know what to do.

Time enough had passed; he'd lost the initial numbness and subsequent leaden weight of his mother's death, and now it seemed it had happened to someone else, so long ago was it. A shudder writhed over his shoulders as he remembered it, his headlong and senseless flight _home _after the confrontation with Dumbledore at Hogwarts, Snape shouting something that made no sense, instructions that he ignored, terrified by his failure, dreading the Dark Lord's vengeance. And vengeance had been swift, it had been foolish of him to go home, however much he wanted—_needed—_his mother to smile and forgive him, to stroke his hair as she had when he was a child and tell him that she loved him.

The Dark Lord had waited. The Dark Lord was patient enough for that, that Draco would _see _the full magnitude of his failure. The lesson would be wasted otherwise.

Only twice before had Draco seen the Dark Lord in the flesh, and he knew, when he stopped, panting, at the manor gates, that he was too late. The house was dark; no lights burned a welcome for him. Icy with dread, he went, gripping his wand in a shaking outsized hand, but he'd been a gangly, gawky teenager then, and he tripped over his own feet on the way through the forecourt.

Never in his life had he feared anything so much as going to the front door and opening it. And he was a coward. He knew that about himself. He'd learned how to Apparate, even if he hadn't passed the test yet; he could go, leave. His mother would die either way, wouldn't she? Why should Draco present himself to the Dark Lord he'd disappointed, to be die with her, likely after a screaming eternity of torture?

He hesitated, his hand on the heavy iron latch. And hated himself for it.

The enormous wooden door swung open with a creak, and he stepped inside, forcing himself to stand up straight, to not cringe and hunch his shoulders like some broken house-elf. He was a Malfoy.

"Mother?" He called softly, his voice echoing in the empty foyer. The echo was the only answer he got.

It was unnaturally cold. Outside, the air was muggy with summer heat and humidity, but now he shivered even as clammy perspiration broke on his forehead. The Dark Mark writhed in his flesh and he clapped a hand over it, hesitating another moment before he went forward, trying to guess which room the Dark Lord might be in. What room would best suit this task? Lucius' office, Narcissa's own bedroom, the ballroom?

Never had Draco realized so clearly that he knew nothing, understood nothing. The methods of the Dark Lord were beyond his ability to imagine, beyond his grasp, and always would be.

"Mother?" He called again, more loudly, and his voice skipped an octave. Guided by an unseen hand, he chose the steps, gripping the railing tightly with each step up the gracefully curving staircase. When he was four, he'd loved to slide down the railing, cushioned at the bottom by old Miggs the house-elf's last-second magic. Until his father caught him and thrashed Miggs, and that had been the end of that.

The corridor at the top of the steps was, if possible, even colder, and he clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. But he thought there was a dim greenish light, barely discernable, in the north wing, a vague glow that curled around the corner where the hall turned abruptly east.

He would remember that slow walk forever in his nightmares. And as in nightmares, he could not turn back, no matter how badly he wanted to. His legs felt oddly jointless and he tripped again when he reached the corner, his breath rasping in his ears. His heart was pounding fit to leap out of his mouth, and he brushed his sweat-drenched hair out of his eyes, feeling the odd stiffness in his face, as if the muscles that made it mobile had frozen.

The green light came from beneath a door. The Malfoy Library; he had not thought Voldemort would go there, and his mind reeled as he tried to think what the Dark Lord could possibly find in the place, how he would use the things in that room to hurt Draco or Narcissa…what symbol in there was meant to be part of this lesson? The Dark Lord did nothing without at least a dozen different reasons.

The hallway had seemed endless when he turned the corner, but distance was deceptive. He stood before the handsome walnut door and stared at the green light on his feet, his hand trembling centimeters from the knob. The brass had gone foggy with the cold, and hurt his hand when he finally forced himself to touch it. Turn it, such an easy thing to do, and his whole body was shaking and he couldn't seem to draw a decent breath…

The door swung open on its own, and he stood bathed in that green light, blinking to adjust after the absolute blackness of the hall.

A fire in the hearth, emerald flames dancing, a more sickly color than flames doused with Floo powder. And there, at the wide floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the room, stood Lord Voldemort and Narcissa Malfoy.

Or, to be more accurate, the Dark Lord stood. Narcissa drifted in place, her face waxen and emotionless, her eyes empty. Maybe it was the Imperius Curse; maybe not. Whatever, she stood under Voldemort's power, not her own.

"Young Malfoy," the Dark Lord said, lifting his head, the slits of his nostrils flaring as he inhaled. "Shut the door."

His hand shaking, Draco obeyed.

"Come here."

"What have you done to my mother?" He asked, and if his voice came out more softly than he meant it to, at least it didn't crack or waver.

"She is at peace. For the moment." Voldemort's face was a study of icy calm, the red lights of his eyes flickering like banked coals.

Alberic, it was cold. His teeth ached from clenching his jaw, and he couldn't help shivering, his breath curling in white plumes as he approached, step by torturous step. Dread was a solid mass in his belly, hopelessness hanging like a millstone around his neck.

"You failed me. As your father did."

"I g-got t-the Death Eaters int-to Hogwarts," he stammered, unable to keep his teeth from chattering any longer.

"Your task was to kill Albus Dumbledore. Yes, that task was accomplished, but not by you." Voldemort hissed the last sentence. "Like father, like son. I have no use for those that fail me. And _you—_a talentless arrogant peacock that has failed at everything he has ever done…"

The words hammered him. It was true.

"But worst of all," the Dark Lord said calmly, "you are disloyal."

Draco's eyes snapped open at this charge, and against his will he took a step back, fighting to keep the shield before his thoughts as Aunt Bellatrix had taught him.

Voldemort laughed, high and cruel and humorless.

"Do you think such a weak wizard as yourself can keep me out?" He said, pointing with an unnaturally long finger. "I know your heart, you cowardly creature. You are not loyal to anyone but yourself…and perhaps, a little, to your mother. She will rest more easily knowing that her spawn is capable of a modicum of familial feeling, will she not?"

He looked at Narcissa, whose long hair had fallen to hide her face when her head drooped. The red light of Voldemort's regard swept over her pale body.

"Master." Chilled to numbness, Draco stepped forward, wrapping his arms around his body in a futile effort to keep warm. "P-please let my mother go. She…"

"Birthed a failure," Voldemort said softly. "Raised and coddled a failure. _Betrayed me to protect her failure._" He touched her cheek, and his long nails scratched her, drawing blood.

"It was m-my fault," Draco said, and blinked hard, forcing the tears away. Through his teeth, so he wouldn't stutter, he said, "I beg you."

"This is how you beg?"

He dropped to his knees without hesitation. "I beg you, my Lord. Spare my mother. I'm here."

Voldemort smiled, a tight grimace that did not touch his eyes and conveyed no pleasure. "No. _Incarcerous."_

What he might have done to stop it, Draco didn't know, but he lunged forward nonetheless, his wand sweeping up. _Too late, _he thought, despairing, as thick ropes bound his arms to his body, knotted around his ankles and sent him tumbling to the floor. But it had been too late the moment he looked into Albus Dumbledore's eyes and realized that he couldn't kill him. Could not. It was impossible.

Voldemort pointed his wand at Narcissa, and Draco opened his mouth to protest, but found his voice was gone. He waited for it—nothing wrong with his ears, he could hear the fire crackling—the rushing sound of wind, the green light, his gray eyes wide with horror, tears streaming freely down his cheeks and he could give a damn who saw it, even as his mind whirled desperately, unwilling to accept that this was happening, there must be a way to stop it, and his own child's voice rung in his memories, sobbing _Mother _from the depths of a nightmare…

Voldemort did not speak, but flicked his wand. No green light. No rushing wind.

Narcissa wobbled and dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut, her eyes blinking slowly, settling on her son.

"Draco!"

His lips worked soundlessly. _Mother!_

She looked up at the Dark Lord and floundered backward, tangled in her own robes.

"What are you going to do to him?" She asked, her voice high and breathless. "My Lord…"

"Weak," Voldemort spat, his lip curling. "Weak, both of you, the same spineless whimpering…I will not hear it again."

He gestured with his empty hand to something that lurked on the second shadowy level of the library, and in the deepest darkness Draco saw fog curling, clammy and smothering.

Now he understood.

Voldemort heard his mental shriek and turned, smiling in approval. "Disloyal and weak, perhaps, but you are not an utter fool." He gestured again, upward, the hood slipping backward over his scaly skull as he looked up, the extra joint on each finger curling.

From the shadows, a Dementor emerged.

Another.

A third.

The fog rolled with them.

Draco's eyes bulged and Narcissa began to scream, fumbling at the pockets of her robes for her wand. It wasn't there, of course not, and she backed away from the scabbed hand of the first Dementor as it reached for her, scuttling into the crimson satin drapes. One small hand beat unconsciously at the glass, but there was nowhere to go.

"Please!" She screamed, curling into a ball, away from the reaching hands of the Dementors. "Master, _please!"_

Voldemort did not speak. The Dementors did not hesitate, breathing in rattling breaths that made the air darker and heavier, a solid weight that was compressing Draco's chest as if a stone lay atop it…

The first Dementor drew back his hood, and Draco screamed in his mind, his lips moving soundlessly, writhing in the ropes that bound him. The thing's head was hairless, scabbed, wet skin clinging tightly to bone, and even from the back he saw how unnatural it was, how _wrong…_

Narcissa's screams rose still higher, the death-screams of a baby rabbit.

Almost tenderly, the Dementor gripped her face in its hands, drawing her up despite her struggles. Her eyes locked on it, and whatever she saw, her breath left her all at once.

From his perspective on the floor, Draco couldn't see the moment the Dementor's mouth touched hers. He was sobbing breathlessly, the ropes that bound him contracting more tightly with every exhalation, the carpet under his cheek damp with his tears. It was too late. It was already too late.

Narcissa fell silent, and her hands slid limply to her sides. The Dementor drew a wheezing breath and released her, and she slumped bonelessly to the floor. Her eyes were utterly empty.

"Away," Voldemort said brusquely, and there was something—a mockery of sympathy perhaps, a cruel grief that was an obscene parody of Draco's own—in his face that made Draco cringe back as the Dark Lord approached. The Dementors moved a pace, fog roiling like the fetid mist off a swamp beneath and about them, and Voldemort made an impatient gesture that sent them floating back to the second floor, there to be lost in the darkness.

"Now," Voldemort said, smiling slightly. "Now I will hear what you have to say."

He gestured, and Draco gulped, his sobs suddenly loud and wrenching. It had somehow been a little easier—just a little—to deny what he'd just witnessed when he couldn't hear his own weeping.

"What do you want me to say?" He rasped, and didn't care if he stuttered or if his voice cracked. "You'll do whatever you want. It doesn't matter."

"You have learned much in a few moments," Voldemort said silkily. "See how your wisdom has increased."

The mockery solidified fear into hatred; maybe the hatred had always been there, beneath the fear, ever since Potter came back Fourth Year and said the Dark Lord was back, that Draco no longer had a choice; he was a Death Eater's son and his path was chosen for him. He didn't know. It was impossible to sort it out, and he wasn't going to waste what were likely the last few minutes of his life worrying about it. He hated Voldemort and he let the Dark Lord see it. What else could he do to him? Kill him? Set the Dementors on him like he'd done to Narcissa?

"A pity, a pity…" the Dark Lord whispered, moving restlessly before Draco, smiling to himself as he drank in the waves of loathing. "If only you had learned sooner, if only…"

"If only…" Draco echoed hollowly. "I would've told Dumbledore about Snape. If I'd learned sooner."

Voldemort drew back, and the mockery was gone from his face, as was his smile.

"You _dare!" _He spat, and Draco laughed, high and wild.

"Yes! I'd've told Dumbledore everything I knew, I would've taken his offer, and my mother would be alive now! Dumbledore was everything you could never be, and…it…_kills_ you!" Draco gasped, breathless, the ropes tightening around his midsection like a boa constrictor.

"Disloyal…"

"To _you?" _Draco managed, though his voice barely topped a whisper. "Yes."

Voldemort's face twisted, and he brought his wand up, those eyes burning, _burning, _and Draco braced himself, his eyes locked on his mother. This wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen to him. _Avada Kedavra _would be a mercy.

A piercing cry, and he squirmed back unconsciously, squinting against a sudden and blinding light. From above, he heard the shocked rattle of the Dementors, and Voldemort flung his robe over his face as fire, real, warm fire, burst in a pillar between them. Within the flames, Draco thought he saw wings, and the robes burned off his body somehow without harming him…

"NO! NO, IT CANNOT BE—" 

And something crooned a song that made him cry, and made him warm at the same time. A jewel-bright eye flashed and the song swelled, music that wrenched inside his chest, breaking his heart and healing it, even as he looked over at his mother's endlessly and hopelessly empty face—

And he understood, standing on legs that shook as blood began circulating properly again, and that fierce bright eye winked at him again, and the song whispered _go, my son…_

It sounded like Albus Dumbledore's voice.

Incredulous tears leaked anew over his drawn cheeks. Draco pivoted on the spot—

And went.

* * *

**Endnote: **Before I forget: in writing _Bad Faith, _the use of _Merlin _as an epithet got repetitive, so I switched it up with Morgana Le Fey, Alberic, and a few other names off the Chocolate Frog Cards. All hail the almighty Lexicon. 


	2. Regulus Arcturus Black

**A/N: **A couple notes before we begin--first, for those of you who've read _Bad Faith, _I am trying not to rewrite that story with this one, so let me know if I'm successful. Second, I'm sticking as close to canon as possible, making my own best guesses as to what and where the horcruxes are, but I'm a Draco/Hermione shipper, so that's the pairing I focus on, even if it's never going to happen in canon. (Though JKR gave us Dramione shippers some excellent canon-fodder in HBP.) I'm skipping the Ron/Hermione pairing JKR has set up completely. Because I want to. D

* * *

There were days—and nights—when misery heaped on top of misery and it seemed like the whole world was conspiring to push him over the edge. 

It was snowing.

It was freezing.

And he didn't have the foggiest idea where he was going to go, but freezing to death didn't seem like any sort of plan. Of course, he'd spent most of the last few months without the foggiest idea of where he was going to go, with the tedium broken by the occasional attempted murder. Of him.

He shook his head, snow melting in his longish hair so that it whipped icily over his cheeks, and wrapped his arms tighter around his body, surveying the hills ahead.

He could go to America. To France. To sunny Spain or Africa or wherever the hell he wanted, so long as it was _warm. _There was no reason to stay here and…what, suffer? Avenge his mother? There was no law that said Draco Malfoy was obligated to wander the English countryside with only the most vague hope that somehow, some way, he'd…

Draco swore under his breath and blew on his freezing, aching hands, forcing himself to _think. _He wasn't going to America any more than he was going to the moon. The Mark ached dully on his forearm and his wand was a comforting presence in his threadbare pocket, a slight weight that he only noticed if he thought about it. And that spelled out his choices, didn't it?

He _wasn't _useless, he told himself fiercely, though he only half-believed it.

He could try to break his father out of Azkaban. The Dementors weren't there anymore; it was guarded by wizards, mortal, killable wizards, and with Lucius' help, with the help of the other Death Eaters locked up there, he might be able to pull it off.

And then what? He'd be welcomed back to the fold?

No, that bridge had been well and truly burned. Draco smiled sourly. Hell, he hadn't just burned down the bridge, he'd pissed on the fucking ashes, metaphorically speaking.

And his father wouldn't be grateful for the rescue. If the Dark—if _Voldemort _didn't kill him outright for repeated failure, he would set Lucius the task of hunting down his errant son. It didn't bear thinking about, so Draco didn't; he looked instead at the next hill, and the next, and wished he had some destination in mind so that this hike seemed less pointless.

However he tried to force his mind away from a single, wild hope, it kept circling back desperately to gnaw at it.

Harry Potter.

Ron Weasley.

His heart dropped to his shoes and he closed his eyes for a second. _Hermione Granger._

If anyone would help him, she would. She was soft-hearted. He knew that well enough; he'd despised her for it.

The old white rage threatened when he remembered Potter and Weasley, the old prejudice when he thought of the long-molared Mudblood, but…

_But._

There was a tree stump conveniently nearby, and he sat on it, ignoring the cold, burying his head in his hands. It was too big. It was switching allegiances he'd held his whole life, it was betrayal of his father and even his mother of the highest order, it was tantamount to a death sentence. If a Death Eater caught sight of him, just once, with Potter or any of Potter's wanker friends, then he was a dead man. The hunt had been half-hearted, until now. Voldemort had bigger fish to fry, and Draco had done his level best to stay the hell out of the way.

He wished he could forget his mother's face, and almost as bad, that kindly old voice that spoke from the phoenix fire. _Go, my son._

More tears. He despised them as weakness and swiped them away. He'd bawled enough in the last year. His face heated scarlet as he remembered sobbing in front of _Moaning Myrtle, _for fuck's sake, and here he was now, crying like a bloody infant.

How could he even consider this?

What else could he do?

His chest was tight, and he leaned back and gulped in a breath of frigid air, the remnants of his tears freezing on his cheeks. He rubbed his arms absently, stared at the looming grey clouds, and snowflakes caught thickly on his eyelashes and dusted his cheeks. _So quiet, _he thought, and drew another deep breath, scratching his forearm.

Dumbledore's bird had saved him. By extension, Dumbledore had saved him.

Voldemort had murdered his mother.

He wrapped his mind around these facts, and they fit jaggedly, pieces of a puzzle he'd never, _ever _imagined holding in his hands, trying to force it all into some order, some purpose, and if this were arithmetic, the solution would be obvious. Take his chances. And pay his debts.

* * *

Hermione woke, as she always did, just before dawn, and briefly disoriented. There weren't any curtains around her four poster bed… 

No, she wasn't at Hogwarts.

She scrubbed her eyes and sat up, surveying her rather spartan room at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. There remained a momentary urge to look for her schoolbook, and re-read the assignment one last time before class, or find the essay she'd been working on and make sure she hadn't missed any misspellings…and where were her school robes?

Her longing for the library was so keen, it was almost an ache. She loved the smell of old pages, the quiet rustle and whisper of the other students, and always so _much _to learn. It always amazed her, even if it made her smile and giggle, that Ron didn't realize how incredible his world was. Even Harry didn't seem to care. But she was Muggle-born and raised, and until the letter came down the chimney from Hogwarts, she'd never known the Wizarding world existed.

She shook her head and slipped out of bed, rummaging for her brush even as the mirror on her dresser _tut-tutted _her.

"It curls," she said defensively, and resolutely attacked the sleep-tousled mess that was her hair.

"It is an outer manifestation of your inner disorder," the mirror informed her sternly, and she rolled her eyes and walked away. She didn't need lectures from a preachy mirror before the sun was up, and she was one of the most orderly people she knew. Ron was constantly informing her of that fact.

She wondered what Ron would say if she ever told him why she had studied and worked so hard in her classes. How could she _not? _Who wouldn't want to learn how to Transfigure a teacup or brew a love potion, or, she thought, sobering, learn to defend the people they loved? Who wouldn't want to learn all they could, and practice until they could do it without a thought?

It had never seemed like a revolutionary or outrageous notion to her, but it often reduced Ron—and sometimes Harry—to openmouthed head-shaking.

It wasn't as if, she consoled herself as she found she was looking, once _again, _for the usual satchel of books, she was barred from Hogwarts. Prof—Headmistress McGonagall had made it clear that she, Ron, and Harry were welcome back whenever it suited them, and she was willing to provide lessons whenever they had time. Remus Lupin, aside from his incursions into the werewolf population, certainly had taught them a lot, and even Tonks was slipping in lessons whenever she could.

Best of all, in Hermione's mind, she had a certain indestructible bit of parchment that gave her _unrestricted access to the Hogwarts library. _Whatever book she wanted. Whenever she wanted it. For as long as she needed it, and yes, to Madame Pince's obvious horror, that meant the occasional book left the shadowy confines of the library itself.

Headmistress McGonagall might as well have written, _Miss Granger is a responsible young woman who can be trusted with the greatest treasure Hogwarts has, and she will return it in due course and undamaged_.

Hermione had hugged the bit of parchment, danced an inner dance, and when she was certain she was alone, kissed it.

She grinned at the memory as she stripped off her nightclothes and foraged for clean robes. That was another thing she missed about Hogwarts: the elves had been wonderful about seeing her clothes laundered. Kreacher was less than reliable, and as much as she tried to give him the benefit of every doubt, she was always half-afraid he was going to do something horrid to her clothing.

In the room next door, she heard Harry stirring. He was generally an early riser, though Ron would have to be dragged from his bed by force.

Snatching several rolls of parchment from her desk, she hopped down the steps with a cheery _Good Morning! _in the direction of Harry's door, unrolling one as she walked, though she'd read it often enough to have memorized it. Her smile dropped away as she reviewed once again the familiar story: the history of Voldemort as they knew it, with every detail Harry could remember, a list of known horcruxes and possible horcruxes, and another of possible locations…

The headache she recalled from last night threatened to reassert itself, and she hurriedly re-rolled the scroll. They had a number of starting places, anyway, and threatened by Hermione and Ron both with a wide variety of hexes, jinxes, and curses, Harry had reluctantly agreed to pursue the simplest horcrux first: the locket stolen by one Regulus _Arcturus _Black.

RAB.

It hadn't required genius to figure out who RAB was; just a look at the Black family tree. It was possible that Regulus had been named for his uncle Alphard, but as Alphard had been blasted off the tree, Hermione rather doubted it. His blood traitor tendencies probably hadn't manifested themselves all at once.

And having identified RAB—or at least a likely candidate—it had been Ron that recalled the heavy locket they'd found while cleaning Number Twelve, memorable because of the hour the men involved had spent trying to open it. It had insulted their masculine dignity that there was something they couldn't open—in her opinion, something broken that they couldn't "fix."

The problem being that Mundungus Fletcher had ransacked the house in Harry's absence, and he wouldn't be out of Azkaban for a few months.

The things Harry had said when they realized this weren't fit for mixed company. Or any other company.

Lost in thought, Hermione started breakfast. It wasn't a chore she enjoyed, but Kreacher certainly didn't cook anything edible, and Harry and Ron just could not seem to master the simplest household spell. She had her suspicions about that particular inability.

The options, she admitted, weren't wonderful. Try to find the other horcruxes—and they were trying—but in the meantime, she knew the Death Eaters were hunting them.

The bright sunlight streaming through the wintry windows dimmed a little on that thought, and even her irrepressible optimism faltered. The question really was, would Harry be able to find and destroy the horcruxes before the Death Eaters destroyed them? And even if he managed that, how was he supposed to kill Voldemort? Their wands wouldn't work in a duel, and even though she'd seen Harry throw some highly impressive punches in his time, she somehow doubted the final battle between good and evil would rest on the outcome of a fistfight.

She missed Dumbledore. In her worst moments, with a fear that rendered her near tears when she thought of facing the end, whatever that end might be, without him. And as frightened as she was, she knew it couldn't be anything like what Harry felt.

She'd never tell him, but for all that she nagged him and scolded and lectured, Harry was her hero. And if that wasn't the stupidest possible way to express it.

His footsteps thudded on the stairs, and she snapped back to the omelet she was mixing, muttering an oath and siphoning out the cloves that had somehow made their way into the mix, smiling at him as he entered the room and thumped wearily into a chair, his eyes slightly unfocused. With a flick of her wand, she sent a cup of coffee floating to the table and won an answering smile for her trouble.

"Thanks," he muttered, guzzling it.

"Is Ron awake?"

"He'd better be, or I'll hang him by his ankle again."

The shadows under his eyes were almost purple. Frowning mentally, though her smile was fixed on her face, she poured the omelet into a skillet and set it sizzling. No oven required.

That still took some getting used to. Hermione refused to cook when she was home. The second her mother found out a six course meal could be magicked up with a few flicks of a wand, Hermione would be cooking for the rest of her life. Or her parents' lives, anyway.

She grinned and flipped the omelet. Yes, she'd certainly dodged _that _bullet.

"What're you so happy about?" Harry grumped.

"Lessons today," she said cheerfully, and winked. _"Cooking lessons."_

"Ha-ha."

"The day will come," she said with mock severity, "that I'm not going to be here. Then who's going to cook for you? Kreacher?"

"We'll go to the Burrow." With a sigh, Harry flipped open the _Daily Prophet, _scanning the headlines as he did every morning.

In the midst of the hunt for horcruxes, rendering Number Twelve livable, and an assortment of other concerns large and small, Hermione mused as she plopped Harry's breakfast in front of him, something had gone terribly, terribly wrong when she was responsible for the cooking and Harry hid behind his newspaper every morning. Another week of this and she'd start taking collections for the House-Witch Liberation Front.

Ron stumbled into the kitchen just as she was sitting down with her own breakfast, bleary-eyed, his red hair sticking up wildly in all directions. He managed a half-hearted wave before he slumped into his chair and laid his head on the breakfast table.

"You might at least get dressed," Hermione began, and cut herself off before she said, _after I went to all the trouble of making breakfast for you. _The words had been on the tip of her tongue. _Tip of her tongue._

Harry studiously flipped to the next page.

"Tired." His head drifted upward as he scented the air. "Coffee?"

"Get it yourself or steal Harry's." Hermione took an irritated bite of her omelet, flicking her wand to butter her toast.

"Anyone we know dead?"

"Not today." Harry absently took a bit of omelet and washed it down with coffee. "Florean Fortescue's back. He doesn't remember where he was, but he's alive."

"He's at St. Mungo's, then?" Hermione asked, after a whispered prayer of thanksgiving to whomever.

"Mm-hmm."

"That omelet looks really good, Hermione." Ron said hopefully.

"Yes, it's all ham and melted cheese. Very tasty." She took a bite and smiled.

"And we were up so late working without food…" His voice trailed off and he gave her his best approximation of a winning smile.

"It's a shame that you just can't master the spells," she agreed solemnly, just to needle him. His omelet was on the counter and she'd only used the tiniest bit of an invisibility charm to hide it.

Harry swore, dropping the _Daily Prophet _on his omelet.

"Someone tried to kill Mundungus Fletcher!" He snarled, jabbing his finger at the offending headline. "Look!"

**AZKABAN INMATE MOVED TO ST. MUNGO'S FOLLOWING ATTACK**

_Mundungus Fletcher, lately of Devon, was taken to St. Mungo's last night following an attack by one Roland Wentworth, a guard at Azkaban that may have been acting under the Imperius Curse._

_The Minister for Magic had no comment on this serious breach in security, but sources inside the prison say that following the mass defection of the Dementors, Azkaban is less secure than ever for both the prisoners and the guards. Alastor Gumboil, lately of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, had the following remark:_

"_Get those cameras out of here or you can find out for yourself how secure Azkaban is."_

_His offer notwithstanding, this _Daily Prophet _reporter has discovered…_

"That's all?" Ron asked, flipping up the corner of the paper. "Nothing more on Dung?"

"No." Harry swore again, gulped coffee, and slammed his mug onto the table. "We need to find out how he's doing. We need to go see him."

"Tonight," Hermione said quickly, before Ron could speak. "Not today. There will be too many people, Harry, and if we can stay out of sight, we should."

"And if some Imperius'd nurse makes a try for him?" Ron retorted. "He's a member of the Order after all, Hermione, we have to protect him."

"That's not what worries me," Harry said, interrupting what looked to be a promising argument. "I wonder why anyone would bother trying to kill him when for all anyone _should _know, he's just a thief."


	3. Sanguinis Fidelis

**A/N: **Ooh. Ooh, I say. Thank you again, Harry Potter Lexicon. I wish I could claim this idea as my own, but let's see if you all pluck it out. No, it's not in this chapter, but I'll be setting up for it throughout the story. I also want to apologize for the repeated notifications you all probably got about a new chapter being up—I'm getting used to new method for submitting stories, as it's been a very, VERY long time since I submitted anything here. I'll try not to do that to you again. And thank you, reviewers, so much.

* * *

One year ago tonight, he'd been standing in the hallway outside Professor Slughorn's Christmas party, sulking that he hadn't been invited. It seemed a ridiculously trivial matter now. 

And then after the party, an argument with Professor Snape in an empty classroom that smelled of holly boughs and beeswax candles, the last time he could recall when he'd still been sure of himself—certain that he would accomplish the task the Dark Lord had set him, on his own, and finally give honor of his own to the Malfoy name.

He crouched down, his breath curling white in quick pants toward the stars.

There were no holly boughs here.

Resigned by now to shivering, he peered once more through the pine branches at broken-eyed Malfoy Manor. That was what the windows looked like, dark and staring, and it reminded him of things he preferred to forget.

The Manor might have been an apt symbol for the fate of his family.

And darkened windows or not, he knew that there was no guarantee he'd find it empty. The lights weren't on, but someone might be home.

The Mark _burned, _and he gasped, clapping his hand over it and squeezing, breathing open-mouthed through the pain. He didn't think it had anything to do with him; he'd felt it before, and couldn't see how what he was doing would cause it. Of course, tonight, there might be a connection…

He was a coward, a stinking, sniveling coward, standing out in the snow, too afraid to go in there. Had Potter been afraid, when he saw Voldemort reborn? When he'd faced him, year after year? And Granger…a _Mudblood, _and a girl at that, had more courage than a pureblooded Malfoy?

It was easier to make his legs work when he hurled insults at himself, insults more stinging than anything he'd ever said to anyone else, but his feet shuffled a bit—he was beginning to think they'd been rooted to the ground—and he reached for his wand, moving through the shadows along the paved edge of the forecourt, his shoulders knotted with tension.

The front door was slightly open, but perhaps he'd left it that way, nearly six months ago. He slipped through the narrow opening with only the slightest rustle of his worn robes, listening with all his might for footsteps, hushed voices, and straining his eyes for the green light that haunted his sleep.

Nothing. Yet.

Part of him wanted to go back to the library, the braver, less intelligent part of him, to face what had happened there. He could recall every step he had taken down the hallway. Every breath he'd drawn, shaking from more than mere cold, and he walked past the dusty staircase with its broken treads, crossing the marble foyer and noting with vague sadness that some of the tiles had already been prized up. Probably carted off to be sold.

The hall widened and branched from there, a long row of candelabras resting heavily on the walls, the silver varnished almost black after months of neglect. Here and there, though, a candelabra shone silver, newly polished, or even a single curving arm that was empty of its candle but gleamed even in the shadows.

His father's study was off the great room, and Draco hesitated there, his fingers running over the dusty brocade sofa, noting the wireless in the corner. One of the few good memories he had of his father were the evenings, with a fire in the hearth and the wireless on, playing quietly. When Draco was young, Narcissa would read to him while Lucius worked on reports: to whom and for what, he never said.

Sometimes Lucius would pause, glance at his wife and tiny son, and look…contented.

One door to the study was open, and he turned his back resolutely on the great room and went to his father's bookshelves, the collection that Lucius had referenced most often in his work, searching for the dark green book that was the touchstone of the puzzle. Pawing dust away from the shelves, Draco sneezed, his eyes watering as he tried to remember which shelf it was on.

Third from the left, four down from the ceiling.

The last time he'd seen his father search, the correct shelf had seemed much higher off the floor. Now it was on level with his eyes.

Covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve, he dusted with his other hand, and found the green book there, its title faded to illegibility. He edged the book to the edge of the shelf and lined it there precisely with his thumb, then sought the book with the black spine, two shelves left, one down, and the red book, three right and one up, holding his breath at the barest whisper of a sound when he lined them all correctly. In the center, a silver-spined book shone dully, and he drew it forward.

"_Sanguinis Fidelis," _he said softly, and took a step backward as the shelves inverted, folding like an accordion into wizard-space and leaving a narrow stone stair exposed in the middle. The Mark throbbed again on his arm, and he had the strangest idea that it was in response to his incantation.

He thought _lumos, _lifting his wand to illuminate the slick and mildewed steps, mold creeping in the corners.

And couldn't help a slightly smug smile, a trace of the old Draco, as he walked down into the darkness. No matter how many times Weasley had raided the manor, he'd never found this room. And unless Lucius had spoken a secret that had been kept in the family for centuries, the Dark Lord didn't know about it either.

Which didn't mean it was safe to linger, he reprimanded himself, and moved more quickly down the steps, sliding a little on the last and slimiest one, skidding to a stop on the dirt floor. It smelled as only an old cellar could, of dead earth that hadn't seen the sun in who knew how long, all but incapable of nurturing life.

Given the kinds of things Lucius Malfoy kept down here, it was highly appropriate.

In the furthest corners of the room stood the matching stone towers that Draco privately called Iron Maidens, though he knew they were meant for something far worse than that. Old, mostly useless potions in their vials littered the shelves, and the last of the supply of Polyjuice Lucius kept habitually—that he slipped into his pocket, remembered belatedly that there was a hole the size of his fist in that pocket, and transferred it to the other.

Who would have ever guessed that one of the spells on the top of his personal list of things to learn was a charm for sewing up holes in his clothes?

In one corner, he found a battered old briefcase and surveyed it with trepidation before opening it, braced for Morgana only knew what. Maybe the thing would lunge at him like the _Monster Book of Monsters _and take his arm off. If he was lucky, it would take the arm with the Mark on it.

Just a briefcase. He nestled the sealed bottles of potions in it carefully, figuring that he'd have time to identify them later. His father wasn't likely to notice their absence for some time.

Cauldrons gone rusty with disuse were heaped on top of the trunk he needed, and he hauled them onto the workbench, dragging the trunk out into the center of the room, studiously avoiding the sturdy lock. The lock was a trap; Lucius had once mentioned, laughing, that he'd gotten it from Borgin and Burkes for a bargain. Anything gotten at Borgin and Burkes was to be regarded with deepest suspicion.

Puzzling over it, he waved his wand brighter and held his breath as padlock wobbled ominously.

"_Sanguinis Fidelis," _he whispered again hesitantly; there was no other password that his father had ever used in front of him.

The twin snakes that formed the hasp writhed around, rubbing their cheeks together as they arched upward, iron bellies gliding along the lower half of the padlock. Twin mouths opened, and two pairs of fangs, wickedly sharp, gaped.

There was no slot for a key. His hand shook a little before he forced it steady, and held his thumb out, the soft underside facing up. The twin snakes struck quickly, and he jerked backward, shaking his thumb and sucking on it, hoping they weren't poisonous.

A drop of his blood slipped down their fangs, and the snakes nodded, coiling around each other as they slipped upward, through the latch, and then it seemed they almost braced for impact before the lock fell to the floor, the slightly larger snake covering the smaller's head with its own.

_Sanguinis Fidelis, _Draco remembered, roughly translated to _blood loyalty._

The irony—the multitude of reasons for this theft—was enough that he laughed, even though a lump rose in his throat.

But this was the treasure trove he'd come for: books upon books of dubious origin and unpleasant intent, most with their covers decayed beyond recognition, others perfectly preserved and fit to be sold as new. Dark Magic, buried histories, all the knowledge that was forbidden—things his father had never let him see, and certainly never even hinted at in mixed company. It was, he thought, cradling a book titled _The Cult of Walpurgia, _history written—so far—from the loser's point of view…and this particular history should never have been written at all.

He would take all of them.

"_Habetum," _he whispered, with a cautious flick of his wand at the briefcase, and tried the largest of his father's books. It sank easily into the space, rattling a little against the bottles of potion, and with a few more flicks of his wand he created enough wizard space to pack the books tightly together. Clicking the locks shut, he froze, sweat breaking all at once on his forehead.

He'd heard something.

_Nox, _he thought belatedly, and the cellar was pitch-dark. He held his breath and listened for it again, the slightest creak which might just have been the sound of an old house, but he doubted it.

A squeak. Maybe a mouse.

Merlin, let it be a mouse. He'd leave a _wheel _of cheese for it, someday, if it was a mouse.

Something slammed into his knee, and he bellowed, flinging curses willy-nilly and snatching the briefcase up, almost dislocating his shoulder in the process, backing in the direction of the steps.

"Stealing…my masters' things!" Someone shouted, and he flung another _stupefy _before the words sunk in, and something hard pummeled his shins.

"Lumos," he said aloud, peering downward and yelping as Miggs slammed the serving tray into his shin again. "Miggs, stop! Stop! It's me."

The wizened elf peered upward through rheumy eyes and cringed a little, her tiny hand brushing a lock of grey hair out of her face.

"M-Master Draco?" Her eyes were the size of dinner plates and she sniffled, swiping a finger over her long, thin nose. "Master Draco is alive?"

"Yes. I thought you would…" He trailed off, unsure what she would have done. She was bound to the house, even if its owners were jailed, dead, or on the run. He dropped to a crouch, setting the briefcase on the floor. "You're still here."

"Yes, sir," she squeaked. "Waiting for the Master to come back, and my Mistress, oh my Mistress…"

"They're not coming back," he said roughly. "Do you want to go where…what's his name…Doddy went?"

"Dobby, sir?" She blinked, and fussed with the hem of her tea cozy. "Dobby left his family," she said reproachfully. "Miggs will never betray her family, that she has served all her life…"

"You wouldn't be betraying me. Look, it's not safe for you here." And he hadn't even thought of her, Draco thought, staring at her sad little wrinkled face as she fidgeted, clearly unwilling to go. "Go to Dobby," he said gruffly, and straightened, hefting the briefcase. "I'm the only free member of the family, so you have to go where I tell you. Go where Dobby is. If Profess—Headmistress McGonagall asks you questions, tell her the truth. Tell her I sent you to Hogwarts, and that…tell her the truth," he repeated, his voice breaking treacherously. "And if you see anyone wearing this," he added, rallying as he thrust the Dark Mark before the weeping elf, "come and tell me who, and where they were. Immediately."

"But…the house, sir, Malfoy Manor." She stared up at him pleadingly.

"Let it go," he said softly, and wished, as he trudged up the stone steps into the empty house that was all the home he'd ever known, that he could do the same.

* * *

The shrieking of Mrs. Black sent Hermione flying off the sofa and almost into the fireplace before she remembered what it was. 

"Shut up shut up shut _up!" _roared Harry's voice, and clearly audible, the sounds of he and Ron wrestling to pull the curtains over the portrait that continued to defy all laws of man and God, stubbornly glued to the wall.

_ACCURSED FILTH BEFOULING THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS, TRAITORS AND MUDBLOODS THAT DARE TO CROSS THE THRESHOLD OF THE MOST ANCIENT AND NOBLE HOUSE OF—_

Her screams ended abruptly, and neither Ron nor Harry dared to even mutter an aggravated curse as they tiptoed into the sitting room.

"If this house came down, that one wall would still be there, standing over the rubble," Ron said disgustedly, throwing himself into a chair, and brightening as he caressed the leather. "Watch, Hermione." He jerked the lever and the footrest popped up, prompting a delighted sigh.

"Yes, I know," she said, amused. "It's a recliner, Ron."

"It's brilliant. Blimey, I hope Dad doesn't notice the handle—he'll try to take it apart."

Noticing Harry's tight-lipped face, she turned and tapped his knee. "Mundungus?"

"Still unconscious. The Healers can't figure out what Wentworth did to him." His feet jigged impatiently on the carpet. "We have to work on one of the others. We know he's got Helga Hufflepuff's cup…"

"But we don't know _where," _Ron replied. "It could be anywhere."

"Yeah, but it'll be somewhere that means something to Voldemort." Harry's green eyes flicked to the map pinned above the mantle, a far cry from the genius of the Marauder's Map, but useful nevertheless. On scattered points throughout England, small black flags waved as though caught in a breeze. "The Riddle House," he mused aloud, and that flag swelled and turned red.

"It's too near the Gaunt's," Hermione objected, and faltered when Harry looked at her. "I mean—wouldn't it be better to spread them out?"

"It wouldn't matter. Voldemort never expected us to know so much about him, and he probably doesn't know I dreamed of him in the Riddle House when he killed the gardener." His face turned mutinous, and she could see him preparing for battle. "We're going there."

"Not just the three of us, and not tonight," she said flatly, and rolled her eyes at his expression. "It would be a stupid, reckless thing to do, Harry, and if the horcrux has sat there for twenty years, it can sit there another night."

"So who are we going to take with us?" He retorted. "Neville and Luna are probably a bit busy, don't you think? And Gin—" He cut himself off at the warning flare in Ron's eyes. "She'd want to go if she could and you know it."

"But she can't, and that's that. We'll see who can go. But Hermione's right, we're not going just because you're frustrated." Ron snapped the recliner down, agitated, and stood to look at the map. "Wonderful," he said, his lower lip curling. "What'd you call it—a broken-down ruin with a graveyard next door?"

"What, did you think Voldemort would pick a sunny spot of sand for us to find?" Harry grinned, and relaxed, leaning back and propping his feet up on the coffee table. "Why couldn't your Dad have got rid of two recliners, Hermione?"

"Oddly enough, he thinks a man only needs one." She smiled, relieved that Harry wasn't going to go kiting off on another possibly fatal mission. "I'll ask him, next time I see him." She stood up, slinging her satchel of books over her shoulder, and bent to kiss Harry's cheek—an affectionate gesture she wouldn't have managed a few months ago, but the constant and very real possibility of death made her a little more demonstrative.

"Where're you going?"

To be fair, she stood on tiptoe to kiss Ron on the cheek too. "Hogwarts. Lessons with Professor McGonagall. I mean, Headmistress."

The words still refused to trip off her tongue, but in their minds, there was only one Hogwarts Headmaster.

"Be careful," Harry said, unsmiling, and she nodded as she slipped out the door, to tiptoe past Mrs. Black.

* * *

She Apparated into Hogsmeade just as the tall clock in the square was tolling nine o'clock, shrugging her cloak higher over her shoulders, slightly unbalanced on the slippery road by the heavy bag on her back. Madam Rosmerta waved from the door of the Three Broomsticks, where she was sweeping snow away from the entrance, and Aberforth at the Hog's Head harrumphed and turned away as she walked by, slamming the door behind him. 

Wandering past the second Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, where Zonko's Joke Shop used to be, she wondered both uneasily and fondly whether Fred and George were here or at Diagon Alley. If she ignored their questionable pranks, she could admit they were brilliant. She smiled slightly as she remembered the highly effective Daydream Charm she'd bought when Harry and Ron weren't looking.

The missed Arithmancy lesson had been worth it.

The wind cut like an icy knife and she burrowed deeper behind her scarf, walking half bent over as she turned off the main street of Hogsmeade. Her eyes watered, and she squinted as a familiar figure wove its way toward the castle, singing _God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs _at the top of his lungs and horrendously off-key.

Grinning, she sped as fast as she dared after him. "Hagrid?"

"Whozzat?" He turned, stumbled a bit, and his beard split in an answering smile. "Hermione! What're yeh doin' here, an' after dark?"

"Lessons with the Headmistress," she replied, and cocked an eyebrow. "What are _you _doing, out alone and after dark?"

"Liftin' a few glasses with Aberforth for Dumbledore." His lower lip trembled a bit. "Great man, Dumbledore."

"The best," she agreed softly, as he relieved her of her satchel, slinging it over his shoulder as if it were filled with feathers.

"How's Harry, then?" He asked.

"Restless." Hermione kicked a bit of snow glumly. "It's not easy."

"No, I wouldn' think so. Yeh don' need my help, do yeh?" Hagrid might've been reeling, but his eyes were steady as he peered down at her. Recalling the expedition to Little Hangleton, she nodded, chewing on her lip.

"Maybe. I have to ask Harry, but…don't make any plans for tomorrow night."

"An' I was plannin' to run off with Olympe," he said dryly, nodding. "All righ'."

That sorted it, then. Harry might not say so, but he'd be glad to have Hagrid with them—and most Death Eaters would think twice before attacking the half-giant. It would take a lot of wizards and one almighty effort to bring Hagrid down.

"How's Buckbeak?" She asked presently.

"I took him ter see Grawp…day before yesterday," He said, after thinking it over. "They'll get used ter each other."

He only used that particularly airy, careless voice when things had gone terribly badly. She checked his face rapidly—no marks that she could see. Between Grawp and Buckbeak, it was a toss-up as to who would win.

"An' here yeh are." Hagrid gave her an affectionate pat on the head that knocked her to her knees, and absently picked her up by her collar before dropping the satchel on her head. "Yeh're a good girl, Hermione," he said, staring at the castle gates for a moment before shaking his head, turning on his heel, and weaving off in the direction of his hut. "G'night!" He called over his shoulder.

"Good night," she muttered, brushing the snow off her knees and hoisting the satchel back onto her shoulders. The gates creaked open, and McGonagall was there, wrapped warmly against the cold and wearing a singularly ugly hat, her lips pursed.

"Good evening, Miss Granger."

* * *

**Endnote: **Before someone asks, I use the University of Notre Dame's Latin translation site for spells and incantations, and no, they are probably not grammatically correct. JKR wings her Latin, so at least I'm following in distinguished footsteps. _Sanguinis Fidelis_:_ fidelis_ meaning faithful, and _Sanguinis _means more than simply "blood"—it means family, and the blood bond between them. 


	4. Deisum Memoria

_A/N: For the record, updates will have to be _very _sporadic, due to work and…more issues than I could rattle off in the space of an A/N. I hate the delay. Normally I knock these stories out in a couple weeks. frowny face_

It was an unspoken agreement that lessons would be held in McGonagall's former classroom.

Hermione couldn't imagine how she bore it, looking at Dumbledore's portrait in his old office, speaking to it from time to time. She herself wanted to see it, and didn't; how much of Dumbledore was within the canvas? How much advice could he give, how much comfort could he provide? The portraits Hermione had seen of other wizards had retained an amazing amount of their personality, but she thought, somehow, that Dumbledore's part in this war was over.

So she didn't ask, and McGonagall didn't speak of it.

Lessons now were more grueling than any Hermione had ever experienced, focused on defensive and offensive magic to a degree that left her wrung out and soaked with sweat after an hour or two, simply due the concentration and effort the spells required.

Never mind the History of Magic, or Arithmancy; she learned these spells verbally at first, learned to focus until her temples throbbed and she caught herself gritting her teeth with the effort. Then, she learned to summon that power and knowledge with a flick of her wand, and a mental word.

The most difficult part of all was learning to hide that mental word beneath a jumble of others. It might have been something like Occlumency, but Headmistress McGonagall never called it that; it was, as far as Hermione knew, purely of use in battle.

And for all that Professor McGonagall had occasionally outdone Snape in the daily Forbidding Demeanor Competition, Hermione had never imagined the kind of tempered steel that lay within her former Transfigurations Professor. She pulled no punches, and the first lesson, Hermione had lost count of the times she'd found herself stretched out on the floor, staring dazedly at the ceiling.

"Focus, Miss Granger," McGonagall said sharply, and flicked her wand again. The trick, as the older woman's mind was sealed tighter than a Gringott's vault, was to guess from the wand motion and the color of the light—if it was one of the spells that produced light—which spell she was casting, counter it, hide her mind from her opponent, and cast a counter-spell before she had time to react.

It was like a dance step that required separate coordinated movements down to the toes.

Hermione dove aside as a shower of silver arrows slammed into the place she'd been standing, lashing out with her wand and sending a sheet of flame toward McGonagall, who extinguished it with a wave of her wand and threw a counter-jinx before Hermione had managed to stand properly. Desperately, she blocked it with _protego, _wondering what would happen if she ever _did _manage to get past McGonagall's guard, and went with an old standby: the Jelly-Legs jinx.

She followed the Jelly-Legs without pause, twitching her wand upward with a deeply hidden _Supplantare!_

To her astonishment, McGonagall skipped briefly off her feet before she rallied and deflected the spell onto a table, which leapt up spectacularly and smashed into the wall. Hermione moved forward, pressing her advantage, but her pause to watch the table fly was her undoing.

The _exsilium _slammed into her, and she was briefly airborne and gasping for breath before she hit the floor, sliding into a stack of parchment scrolls.

"Reparo," Headmistress McGonagall said brusquely, and the table knit itself back together as she approached Hermione.

"Are you ready to continue, Miss Granger?"

"Just…minute," she said faintly.

"That was well done. You are becoming much more adept at shielding your mind. Now you must learn focus." McGonagall's lips twitched. "There will be many, and more interesting, things to see in a battle with multiple foes. You cannot be distracted."

Hermione nodded and let her head fall back on the floor.

"I venture to say," McGonagall added in a different tone, drawing a wooden chair out of thin air, "that Mr. Potter has not yet been successful."

Hermione shook her head, her eyes automatically darting to the door of the classroom, the windows—any place where eavesdroppers might be, to include ghostly ones. Nearly Headless Nick was a terrible gossip.

McGonagall smiled tightly and waved her wand, and Hermione's eyes widened; that was _Muffliato._

"Mundungus," she said, forcing herself to sit up. "He's still not regained consciousness, Prof—Headmistress. And he stole it, and probably sold it."

"Did he." McGonagall frowned. "And the others?"

If she'd known it would be this easy to assemble volunteers, Hermione thought wryly, she might have agreed to go to Little Hangleton tonight after all. Still uneasy about eavesdroppers—she trusted the Half-Blood Prince even less, if possible, since she'd learned it was Snape—she explained Harry's conviction that one of the horcruxes was there.

"I suppose it as good a place to begin as anywhere else," McGonagall said, nodding. "I will accompany you, Miss Granger, and I believe I shall ask Alastor to join us as well."

"Harry doesn't want—"

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall said severely, peering over her spectacles, "may believe himself quite alone in his task, but as for the Order…we have sworn to help him in any way we can. To include," she added sharply, and extended a hand to help Hermione off the floor, "seeing that he survives to complete it."

"I thought the Order disbanded, after…"

"Dumbledore was a great man, and we followed him." The chair vanished with a wave of her wand, and McGonagall turned away. "But our purpose did not die with him, Miss Granger." She glanced over her shoulder, and though her eyes were rather watery, her smile was not. "Any more than Dumbledore's Army has disbanded."

It was an effort to look blank and puzzled, and McGonagall laughed.

"Someone needs to sit Potter down and explain to him," she said, shaking her head, "that there are a great many people loyal to him, who would assist if he would permit it."

"He doesn't want anyone else to die."

"Then he has a greater quarrel than Voldemort. People die, Miss Granger; it is the way of the world."

"Because of him."

"Because of Voldemort," McGonagall corrected gently, and patted Hermione's shoulder.

It was always difficult to tell how much some Professors knew, and noticed.

McGonagall, without comment or any sign that she thought Hermione might want to see Dumbledore's portrait—even if she considered it an issue at all—led the way up the winding steps, through the shadowed sleeping corridors of Hogwarts, and it was with another pang of loss that Hermione heard her speak the password to the gargoyles before the doors of the office.

"_Deisum memoria," _The Headmistress said blandly.

It wasn't any sweet she'd ever heard of, Hermione thought sadly. Nonetheless, she followed, as McGonagall clearly wanted a chat in more secure quarters.

The room was spartan. All the old gadgets, whirling things, spinning tops and what Hermione privately called perpetual motion machines were gone. Books, instead, and a single Quidditch poster behind the desk—and _that, _she thought with a grin as she spied the small winged ball, was a Snitch signed by one Victor Krum.

"Please sit," McGonagall said brusquely, hanging up her hat. "I have an idea you may have asked for Hagrid's help on tomorrow night's venture, Miss Granger."

"Yes, though he doesn't know for what."

"That's probably just as well," McGonagall muttered, and sat down, staring at Hermione over the rims of her spectacles. "I will accompany you, Miss Granger. As will a few other members of the Order. There is no reason, other than Harry's peculiar obstinacy, that the three of you should go alone."

"I just wish we _knew," _Hermione fretted. "This sort of thing isn't in books, and I hate going there without knowing what we will face. Why didn't Dumbledore write it down as he learned it, all that he knew of Voldemort?"

She twisted in her chair, half grateful and half guilty for the excuse, and sought out Dumbledore's portrait. He slept, as Harry had said; his silver head bowed, lightly snoring, half-moon spectacles slipping down his crooked nose.

"He hasn't awakened, Miss Granger." McGonagall's voice wavered once. "Not yet. And I do not believe that we are meant to seek guidance from him now."

"Have you…tried to waken him?"

McGonagall nodded sharply and looked away. Hermione peered at her shoes, her eyes burning and throat tight. It was worse, somehow, to have help so near and yet so unreachable. What must it be like for wizards, to have their family on their walls, talking as they once had, but still gone, still dead? How did they bear it? Given the choice, she would prefer to bury the ones she loved, and remember them. It seemed cruel to keep a poor and faded copy.

"Well," she heard herself say. "Whether Harry likes it or not—I'll tell him you're coming, Headmistress." She attempted a smile. "I'd rather not—"

The telltale _crack _of Apparation interrupted her, and her wand leapt to her hand as she spun, overturning her chair with a haste and deliberation that kicked it toward the direction of the sound.

Hermione was mildly impressed with her own reaction. Apparently the lessons were working.

There was a high-pitched squeal as the chair struck, the intruder apparently invisible or tiny, and McGonagall peeled the chair away with a silent spell, even as Hermione braced to attack. How on _earth _had someone managed to Apparate into Hogwarts?

Reaction didn't even require thought; _stupefy _was in her mind and her wand was half-back in the proper flick when McGonagall grabbed it from her hand.

"Can I help you?" She asked, and Hermione glanced back to find the Headmistress' lips pursed as though she'd just taken a gulp of Skele-Gro.

A high-pitched squeal, and the elderly House-elf kicked the chair with her tiny foot, glowering up at Hermione.

"You is _rude, _you is, Miss!" She snapped, her hands on her hips. Her dark eyes narrowed. "And blood-filth, Miggs supposes that is why—"

"Pardon me." McGonagall's voice was glacial. With a swish of her robes she rounded the desk and slipped between Hermione and the muttering House-elf. "How did you come here and who are you?"

"Miggs was sent," she replied, and stamped her foot. "Miggs did not want to come."

That tea-cozy looked awfully familiar, Hermione thought, puzzling over it. Faded though it was, there were traces of green and grey on the front, and it might have been an emblem, a crest, something of the sort. She thumped down into one of the hard wooden chairs McGonagall favored.

"Miggs," McGonagall repeated, and twitched her own wand. "Who sent you?"

Miggs darted a venomous look at Hermione. _"She _is not to hear."

"She can be trusted."

"No." Miggs squinted upward, her long nose wrinkling. "Master said, _tell the Headmistress._ He did not say, _speak in front of the Mudblood."_

"If you use that word once more, you can go back to your Master and tell him the Headmistress won't have you," McGonagall snapped.

Miggs stamped her little foot again. "You will tell the Muggle-born what Miggs says anyway."

"That's right."

Impasse. Such insults had long ceased to bother Hermione.

"Master sent Miggs," Miggs repeated sulkily. "He said to come to Hogwarts; it is not safe at home. He said to tell the Headmistress that—that—"

Abruptly, Miggs tugged her handkerchief-sized apron over her head and shrieked. "No, no, _no! _Miggs will not betray her family! Not in front of the Mud—Muggleborn!"

Hermione winced at the high-pitched shrieks, resisting the urge to cover her ears. Old or not, Miggs had an astounding set of lungs.

"_Silencio," _McGonagall said acerbically, and Migg's tantrum became a pantomime. "Perhaps you had better go, Miss Granger."

"I think so," Hermione replied, bemused, and took the proffered wand from McGonagall, tucking it in her sleeve. "Tomorrow night?"

"If nothing else, I will come and inform you," McGonagall replied, jerking her head toward Miggs, who was kicking her little feet and pounding her fists on the floor.

Hermione was halfway down the circular staircase before she placed the picture on the tea-cozy. A dragon, rampant on a silver field. There weren't so many pure-blooded families that she couldn't remember their Crests.

Miggs belonged to a Malfoy.


End file.
